


Act 5 Scene 2

by theghostfromcydonia (littleyounggun)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, Othello - Freeform, Shakespeare, heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleyounggun/pseuds/theghostfromcydonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shakespeare's "Othello" AU: </p><p>A walk to his bedroom isn’t supposed to feel like a march into battle. Yet Derek walks with the heat of adrenaline at his back and Peter’s words deafening his ears. Sickness burns in his throat and scratches his eyes, but his legs are surprisingly steady. For the safety of the pack, Derek knows what he must do.</p><p>(But, God, he wishes there was something else--)</p><p>He will put a stop to this before it gets any further than it already has. He will not repeat the same mistake. He will not let a traitor sell his pack to hunters. </p><p>He will not let Stiles Stilinski rip his pack to pieces.</p><p>{It's not necessary to have read Othello to understand this fic.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for a while. I'm very glad to finally get it out here. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> WARNINGS ARE AT THE BOTTOM because they contain spoilers. Please take care of yourselves and tread carefully; this fic is pretty heavy. (If you've read Othello, you know where this is going. If not, spoilers for Othello ahead.)

A walk to his bedroom isn’t supposed to feel like a march into battle.

Yet Derek walks with the heat of adrenaline at his back and Peter’s words deafening his ears. Sickness burns in his throat and scratches his eyes, but his legs are surprisingly steady.

For the safety of the pack, Derek knows what he must do.

(But, God, he wishes there was something else--)

He will put a stop to this before it gets any further than it already has. He will not repeat the same mistake.

He will not let a traitor sell his pack to hunters.

He will not let Stiles Stilinski rip his pack to pieces.

Their bedroom is dark and still in the night. The slow breaths and soft heartbeat in his bed make his stomach convulse, and Derek is curling over the sleeping figure before he can stop himself. Still asleep, Stiles shifts closer to him, lips moving in silent, nonsensical words. Derek runs his fingers down his cheek, across his lips.

“Stiles… I have to, I have to do this,” he whispers, shakiness evident to his own ears, but he doesn’t know who he is trying to convince. “You’ve given me no choice. I can’t let you.”

Derek loves him, and that is something he can’t forget, can’t even force himself to forget, not even now. Pain burns in his veins like a shot of wolfsbane, but he forces his eyes to memorize the peaceful image of his sleeping mate. In sacred moonlight, Stiles looks calm and harmless- everything he is not. He lies in false light. Derek murmurs, “You beautiful, fake human.”

He steels himself for a kiss, soft, fragile, like their first. The ghost of hello between their lips shivers until it becomes goodbye.

Stiles wakes with the press of Derek’s mouth. Smiles. “Hey there,” he says quietly, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Derek feels a hollowness carve into his chest. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Nerves and affections get packed into a cage and shoved to the bottom of his heart. Derek draws back from his place against Stiles, scooting to sit at the edge of the bed.

Stiles lifts to his elbows. The questioning look sent his way is almost tangible, but Derek keeps his back to Stiles. “Hey—“

Derek interrupts by clearing his throat. “Did you have a nice night?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Had dinner with my dad and Scott. I wanted to wait up for you, but I was beat. Ended up falling asleep. Where were you?”

“Consulting with Peter.”

Stiles sits up now, fully alert. His scent shifts into worry, knowing that a consultation with Peter in the middle of the night only means serious business. “What happened?”

“What else did you do tonight, Stiles?” Derek asks instead. Tries to push away thoughts of his betas. Tries not to flinch when Stiles’s heartbeat stutters.

With narrowed eyes, Stiles asks, “Why?”

“Just… answer the question.”

“Fine.” He crosses his arms and answers petulantly, “We went to see Allison Argent.”

Just the name makes Derek bristle. His inner wolf bares its teeth, and Derek has a hard time holding back from doing it himself. “Why,” he asks but it comes out like a demand from behind gritted teeth.

Stiles resigns himself to the conversation with a sigh. “Because Scott loves her, and she’s not a bad person like you keep insisting she is.”

“She’s an Argent.”

“Allison is not like her family. She doesn’t care that Scott’s a werewolf, and she loves him, too. She…she’s his mate, Derek. She should be a part of the pack—“

“Dammit, Stiles,” Derek moans, grief tightening his throat, and drops his head into his hands.

“Look, Derek, just please give her a chance.” Stiles kicks the covers away from him, shifting to hover over Derek’s shoulder. “I promise she’s—“

“Stop defending them!” Derek snaps.

“Stop interrupting me! Let me fucking talk, Jesus Christ.” Stiles blows out an aggravated breath. Derek finally turns to direct a glare at him.

“That’s all you fucking do, Stiles. You just won’t stop. But now I have to stop you.”

Stiles shoots him an incredulous stare. “What’s gotten into you?” He sends a look out the window. “Is there a surprise full moon out? ‘Cause you’re acting like more of an asshole than usual.”

“This has nothing to do with the moon and everything to do with the fact that you are knowingly consorting with hunters after I explicitly told you and Scott to stay away from them.” He hops away from the bed, too agitated, too irrational to stay in place.

“Consorting with hunters? Derek, what—“ Stiles shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not consorting with fucking hunters, I’m friends with Allison, Derek, fuck.”

“Did you happen to forget the part where Allison _is_ a hunter?” Derek paces around their room, heartbeat lurching with anger and hurt and fear. It’s suffocating him from the inside and out, the stench of his and Stiles’s emotions clogging his nose. “Did that little detail conveniently fall out of your brain?”

“Her family—“

“ _Never trust an Argent!”_ Derek roars. Breaths heaving, he whips around to face Stiles who is sitting stiffly on their bed. He watches Stiles’s mind race, watches as the puzzle pieces slot together. “That’s what I’ve always told you, Stiles.”

Derek sinks down somewhere near the door, hands clenched over his eyes, not realizing his mouth is still moving. “Never trust an Argent, don’t trust her, don’t…”

Images of his old home, family within, unfurls in his mind with a hot spark, an eternity, and everything lights up. Everyone burns away.

Eight burials.

All his fault. All Derek’s fault.

He let emotions cloud his judgment, and now it almost happened again. He just- couldn’t. “Don’t…”

Stiles makes a strangled noise, and that’s it. The last hint Derek needed to drop for him to figure it out. He knows. He knows what happened to Derek’s family, Derek’s first pack. How they were brutally ripped away from him.

“Derek,” Stiles croaks, scrambling out of bed and reaching for him.

“Shut up,” Derek spits, and Stiles freezes. He trembles from the effort it takes to keep himself in place. Had Derek not already cut off their bond, he probably would have felt the pulses of hurt coming from Stiles. As it is, he doesn’t care - _he doesn’t care_ \- for his feelings, for _him_. He’s just one of _them_.

Determined, Stiles drops to his knees and shuffles until he is within Derek’s range of vision, but wisely keeps his distance. Measured breaths force the calm into Stiles, but his heart still betrays him. “Derek, Allison is not Kate,” and Derek feels his heart crack. Brainwashed with silver, Stiles is gone to him, if he was ever with him or for him in the first place. “I can’t- I can’t prove it to you if you’re not willing to give her a chance.”

He will not repeat the same mistake. He will not let it get farther than it already has; it’s too late for Boyd and Isaac, and that… it makes his wolf howl, circle in desperation, makes his heart crack further.

Makes him steel his nerves for what’s coming. For his pack.

He forces himself to look at Stiles, eyes burning red with mistrust and anger. Stiles flinches, visibly shocked.

“How about this instead,” Derek retorts, and he’s surprised at the flatness of his own voice. “Show me your talisman.”

“What?”

Derek snaps. “Your talisman! The one I gave you when—“

“I was formally accepted into the pack,” Stiles finishes, eyes lowering. His hand goes to his neck, where his talisman is usually kept under his shirt.

“That would be the one.” Derek openly stares at Stiles who is now refusing to meet his eyes. He wishes this was a nightmare he would wake up from already.

“All humans get a physical representation of their place in the pack. Magically infused with the bond that ties wolves together, making a space for the human. It also allows for the human to walk into the den without raising any alarm or suspicion, at least until all the wolves get used to the human’s scent and presence.”

“Yes,” Stiles whispers. “I remember.”

“Then where is yours? Show it to me.” Stiles’s hand falls from his neck into a fist in his lap. Derek already knows the answer, but continues anyway. “You can’t, can you.”

Finally, Stiles lifts his gaze to Derek’s. “No, I can’t. I lost it.”

Derek snarls. “Even if that were true, didn’t you think that it’d be something slightly important to mention?”

“I-I didn’t think--!”

“What? That I’d _notice_?”

“Not before I found it, at least!” Stiles squawks. His hands jerk with the urge to reach for Derek, but Derek staunchly refuses to give him even an inch. Everything Peter warned him about is unfolding right before his eyes, and he isn’t sure how much more he could take. Stiles continues, “I never take it off, Derek, it didn’t make sense to me how I could lose it. Only for showers, that’s it, that’s the only time it’s ever off my neck. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it only to find it between the toilet paper or the towels later.” He frowns suddenly. “But… that’s the truth. What else could I have done with it?”

“Given it to the Argents,” Derek says coldly.

And he remembers suddenly, the first time he explained the talisman and its importance to Stiles. His mate had been overjoyed, slipping it over his neck. Immediately, he started firing questions. How was it made? Who performed the magic? Was it difficult to replicate? How many could be made? How would it shift the pack dynamics?

Derek had assigned it to Stiles’s usual inquisitive nature, his hunger for knowledge, but he sees now. He was collecting information, yes, but not for himself.

Derek curses his past self and his blindness, his stupidity. It didn’t matter that hindsight was twenty-twenty vision. He had almost made the same mistake, almost let this happen _again_.

Stiles’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open at the accusation. “Derek, no—“

“Yes,” Derek hisses like he’s in physical pain.

“What the fuck,” Stiles breathes, tugging at his hair. “I didn’t, I swear, just- listen to my heart! I’m telling the truth!”

“It’s beating too fast for me to tell.” And it is, each pound a hammer in Derek’s head. Not that he’d trust it anyway, considering how long Stiles has obviously gotten away with lying. He had heard of different methods, and he didn’t know what this could be, breathing exercises or a spell, but it worked its purpose.

“Christ.” Stiles springs to his feet, anger filling the room sharply. Derek breaths out harshly as Stiles claps the back of one hand to the palm of the other. “What the _fuck_ , Derek! What the actual—I can’t believe you actually think I’d do that. Don’t you know how important that talisman was to me? Don’t you get that I love this pack, that I love _you_ more than anything?”

Derek… can’t. He can’t look at Stiles, who is staring at him with open desperation. He can’t let himself believe, fall for this bullshit twice. It cost him before, and it has cost him now, but he’s putting a stop to it. He can’t risk the rest of his betas, his pack.

He lets the words hang in the air as he slowly drags himself up, back pressed against the door and hand wrapped around the locked door knob to support him. He needs to be ready, yet his legs tremble like he’s been running for days.

“No,” Derek finally says, and he might as well have slapped Stiles for the look on his face.

“I…I’ve been nothing but loyal to you and the pack. I don’t understand…” His mouth works but no words come out so he eventually shuts it, swallowing. Derek’s wolf whines while he considers his next words.

“Isaac and Boyd are dead because of you,” he rushes after a steadying breath. Stiles jerks back violently, face paling quickly.

“No,” he mumbles, suddenly looking unsteady. He stumbles away, breaths turning to wheezes, and Derek catches him instinctively before he falls to the floor. Setting him on the bed, Derek moves away quickly. Stiles folds so that his head is between his knees, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly.

“It was one of the Argents,” Derek explains and distantly wonders how he can keep his voice so stony and flat, wonders if Stiles can even hear him. “They walked right into the den, took them by surprise.”

“What…”

“Thanks to you and your present.”

“The talisman,” Stiles moans. “Oh God.”

“What could you possibly have to say for yourself?”

“Scott. And Erica. Lydia and Cora. Are they okay?”

“Lydia is safe. I sent Peter and Erica to take care of Scott. They insisted.”

His wolf growls and snaps, unable to harmonize instinct to protect his mate with instinct to protect pack. A mate is never supposed to be a threat to pack, but here they are. Derek forces the next words past a dry tongue. “And I’m to take care of you.”

Stiles looks up sharply. “Derek…”

There’s another crack within his heart that almost makes Derek want to take it all back, to pretend this was another nightmare he suffered instead of his reality, his life, but… “I will not let you rip this pack apart.”

Stiles stops breathing.

Derek moves as soon as Stiles does.

Stiles vaults over the bed, and Derek rips his pants trying to grab his ankle. Stiles only kicks back, grunting, grimacing, and landing ungracefully on the floor. He feels some fingers give and crack unnaturally from his awkward landing but rolls away just as Derek throws himself over the bed, landing in a crouch. His claws are out, but he holds back his fangs. He can’t, he just can’t bring himself to give into the shift completely, even if he feels his eyes burning red.

While Derek readies to pounce, Stiles scrambles for the door. He yanks the handle urgently, feels his stomach seize when it doesn’t give. He is yanked back before he can fumble for the lock. He screams, abruptly cut off when he’s slammed back against the door. It knocks his head and clicks his teeth, stunning him until Derek squeezes his hand over Stiles’s mouth.

“Why do you run!?” Derek demands desperately. “Why do you run if you’re not guilty?!”

Wild, eyes red and wet, Stiles bites viciously, tastes the blood seeping into his mouth, staining his teeth and pouring down his chin. Derek flinches hard, but presses harder against Stiles, forcing a whimper out of him. He asked the question, yet doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know because he fears the answer. His heart can’t bear anything else. He needs to end this, needs to protect his pack, but he just…

Stiles struggles manically, scratching and yanking at Derek’s hand until he’s able to speak.

_“You’re scaring me!”_

Derek thinks of Boyd, pinned to the wall of his own den with wolfsbane-laced daggers, feeling the poison run through his body until his healing abilities could not keep up anymore. He thinks of Isaac, shot up full of kanima poison then dumped and abandoned under the faucet of the bath tub, water overflowing but still unable to move or panic because of the paralytic injection. Thinks of the Argent who waltzed into their home like it was hunter territory, essentially wearing Stiles’s skin as camouflage in order to get away with it.

Derek’s mind races with I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this, I’m so sorry, I love you so much, I love you, I love you, but what comes out is, “Good.”

“Scott!” Stiles howls, redoubling his efforts to break free from Derek’s hold. Derek only trembles. _“Scott!”_

“Shut up!” Derek shakes him. “He’s dead, Scott is dead! Stop calling for him!”

Stiles shakes his head frantically. “He can’t be.”

“You can’t have already forgotten what Erica is like. Hell has no fury--”

“You- _asshole_!” Stiles swings his knee hard to nail Derek in the groin. It jars Derek long enough for Stiles to elbow him in the face, forcing him to loosen his grip. Stiles thuds to the floor, crawling under the bed. “Kill me tomorrow,” Stiles rasps, “Let me live tonight!”

“Your struggles aren’t helping you.”

“Half an hour.”

“I have to do this, I have to do it now.” Derek is doubled over, torn between nursing his crotch or his bleeding nose with his bitten hand, staring at Stiles wriggle into the tight space. Derek says, “I should have never let you and Scott into the pack.”

Stiles freezes, and the sudden stillness between the two of them is more jarring than a physical blow. Derek suddenly feels ridiculous, talking to Stiles’s bare foot.

“Whatever you think we did,” Stiles says carefully, voice slightly muffled, “you’re wrong.”

“You brought the Argents into our den, infiltrated our pack.”

“Just Allison, only Allison. We didn’t—“

“One Argent brings the rest.”

Derek thinks of Erica’s anguished cry at the feeling of her pack brothers being ripped away from her, Cora’s hyperventilation.

Whatever is left still peeking out from beneath the bed, Derek grabs and pulls. Stiles shouts in alarm, back scraping and head bumping against the bed frame as he is yanked backwards. The emergency backpack stashed under their bed gets dragged out with him. It’s full of essential information, small weapons, whatever is deemed important enough to have on the run. Its contents spill over the floor with the violent movements, some pages fluttering away. Tiny vials containing anything from antidotes to ingredients to wolfsbane extract delicately roll across the floor.

Stiles has his fingers wrapped as well as he can manage around one of the knives. Runes are etched into the blade, not potent enough to kill an alpha werewolf, but enough to slow one down. He swings blindly, catches Derek from shoulder to elbow, giving him just enough of a chance to kick away.

Derek jolts back, unable to hold back a roar of pain. Wobbling to his feet, Stiles brandishes his knife in the space between him and Derek, but he’s still just, he’s just…a mess. Clothes disheveled, hair a wreck, Stiles’s face is a mess, tears coming endlessly from puffy, narrowed eyes. Sweat is dripping down his neck, various bruises forming all over from the struggle. Derek’s blood is smeared all over his mouth, his jaw, making him look like an absolute madman. Some of his fingers are definitely broken, awkwardly and painfully wrapped around his weapon.

But Stiles only pants for breath, unaware and uncaring of his own appearance as he trains his eyes on Derek, waiting.

Then something changes in his eyes. Blind terror recedes as he soaks in the sight of his mate. In a reedy voice, he whispers, “I just want to live.”

Derek tenses but remains in place, claws still curled, eyes still narrowed, but tracing the tremble of Stiles’s lip, the stiff posture of pain in Stiles’s body. Derek just aches.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Stiles lowers his knife. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. And I didn’t. Derek, I didn’t.”

“You hurt my pack.”

“Someone set us up,” Stiles blurts with sudden energy, eyes wide like the idea just hit him. It’s too much like grasping for straws. “Someone framed us, Derek—“

He’s not listening anymore. Can’t. The moment the knife slips from his grip, Derek lunges. A thunk. Clothes ripping, then skin. A strangled gasp rips from Stiles’s throat. His hands scrabble at Derek’s arm, then his face, but Derek just sinks his claws deeper into Stiles’s abdomen. Betrayal burns fiercely in human eyes. His wolf is confused, frightened, and angered. The whines, it turns out, are real, coming from Derek himself.

It lasts _forever_ , this moment, with Stiles still weakly trying to push Derek away, but Derek unyielding, frozen, stunned, stupefied even though he had come home with this intention. He accomplished his goal, he saved the remaining members of his pack, but now his mate, his Stiles—

Can’t support himself anymore and slumps into Derek’s chest. Noises creep out of his throat, shocked, angry, hurt, so hurt, so much blood, lathering his claws, dripping down his front and pooling on the floor. Iron is the only stench in his nose, red is all he sees. The stuttering heart beat blots out everything else.

Derek brings his free arm to wrap around Stiles’s waist, supporting him even with his claws deep in his abdomen. Gingerly, he slides the both of them to the floor, Stiles with his eyes locked on Derek’s. His hands fall to his wound as Derek pulls out his claws. He’s not sure who makes the wounded noise.

Static fills his head even as his wolf howls and howls.

“D-Derek,” Stiles chokes, and then his eyes roll to the window.

A car door slamming shut jolts Derek out of his head. Headlights fill the room in stripes, highlighting gore, contrasting it from the night time blue of the room. Claw marks on the door. The mess of papers and tiny vials. The bed. The blood.

Stiles’s pale, trembling figure.

The front door is forced open, Lydia’s shrill cry of “ _Derek!_ ” mixing with her pounding footsteps as she runs to their bedroom.

Stiles is reaching for the knife, but Derek just shakes his head minutely and grasps his cold hand, kissing his bloody knuckles. “Just sleep, Stiles,” Derek rasps, and Stiles makes a weak noise, tears steadily dripping down his face. “I don’t want you to hurt. Just sleep.”

“You weren’t answering your phone!” Lydia shouts from the other side of the door, voice wobbly and high, panicked. She beats her fists violently against it. “I just-I want to scream so bad, but there’s so many, and I don’t know who—“ The doorknob jiggles. “Open the door! Derek! Stiles!”

Derek shifts so that Stiles lies on the floor, ignores how Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He stops to caress his cheek, his neck, making more of a bloody mess and causing Stiles to blink rapidly, more tears slipping away. Derek rises and steps to the door, pressing his forehead against it and trying to ignore the shallow breaths behind him.

“Lydia,” he says, and he hears her freeze. Calmly, pointedly, he says, “Go away.”

She doesn’t move. Derek is irritated but not surprised as he leans against the door and breathes and breathes and breathes, tries not to inhale the blood. But it’s all there is- it’s invading his system, his body, his soul, staining it. It will never go away, and he doesn’t want it to, but he sacrificed his mate for his pack, and it was never supposed to be this way. This was never supposed to happen.

There are soft, scratching noises at the doorknob again, and Derek realizes Lydia is trying to pick the lock. He lets her because he’s too tired to move suddenly. He doesn’t want to, he _can’t_ , not when the full weight of the situation is slamming into him like an iron wall.

A wet cough has Stiles clenching his teeth against the pain, nostrils flaring, and that’s what gets Derek to swing away from the door, sliding against the wall next to it instead. He sits, listless, staring at his claws and wondering why his mate – mate? What mate? He’ll never have a mate again - why Stiles hasn’t just _died_ already.

“ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles chokes out, and the door swings open.

A hummingbird heartbeat overpowers the room, too fast, too loud. Derek doesn’t see her face - can’t bring himself to look - but he can hear her horrified gasping, short little huffs that only wrack up her panic.

“ _Stiles!”_

She drops to her knees beside him, blood quickly seeping into her clothes. She presses her hands against his wound, trying to stop its flow, making Stiles gasp breathlessly, uncaring that it’s really too late.

“N-No, why…” She sniffs hard, wet eyes fluttering from his wound to Stiles’s face, completely ignoring or forgetting that Derek is behind her. “Stiles, what…”

Stiles tries to raise a hand to brush against her cheek, but gives up half-way and lets it drop against his chest. His other hand twitches around the knife he was wielding earlier, now covered in his own blood. “It was me,” he says, pushing his voice to be louder, stronger. “I did this to myself.”

Lydia gapes, tears welling even faster. “Stiles, I didn’t know you started taking me for an idiot! These aren’t knife wounds! And they’re not—they’re not self-inflicted!”

Stiles slams his eyes closed, forcing drops to roll down his face. With a stuttering breath, he chokes, “I love him.” He blinks, but he can’t look at Derek. “I love you,” he says to the ceiling.

Derek’s wolf howls pitifully.

“Stiles, _don’t_.”

“Find Scott,” he says with sudden urgency, head lolling towards Lydia. “He has to be okay. It wasn’t his—we didn’t…” He stops, and Derek realizes he has started growling. He cuts it off quickly, horrified, while Stiles focuses on taking little breaths. Lydia finds herself nodding furiously.

“Scott, yes, we’ll find him together, Stiles. You and me.”

Stiles forces himself to look at Lydia whose eyes may as well be faucets, who is trying to keep the snot in her nose. He remembers, remembers ‘I think you look really beautiful when you cry.’ Lydia, who became one of his best friends, a beloved member of his pack. Whose breaths are coming too fast. Who is still desperately trying to staunch his bleeding.

“I’m sorry, Lyds…”

Her face crumples, and she folds over with a sob, reaching to cling to his hands instead. “Don’t say that, don’t do this, Stiles, please.”

“You need to…” his voice is shakier now, trying to squeeze Lydia’s hands with his broken fingers. A fresh wave of tears pools in his eyes. “Take care of my dad, okay? He’s not going to be okay for a while, but you have to help him.” When Lydia only cries harder against him, he insists, “Promise me. Please. Lydia, please.”

“I promise,” she finally gasps. “God damn you, Stiles, I promise.”

Stiles forces a chuckle, cringing at the ache that comes with it. “That’s my girl. That’s it.” He pets her hair weakly, muttering, “It’s okay. It’s okay…”

His eyes slip shut.

“Stiles?” Lydia whispers.

He stills.

Urgent, sharp. “Stiles.”

Derek’s heart races, and he stops breathing. Lydia’s mouth trembles, staring at her best friend with wide eyes. A beat, two, three, more where she can’t catch her breath, gasping and gasping. Her whole body is trembling and taut against Stiles’s as she brushes fingers through his hair over and over. Derek feels buzzing behind his eyes, static in his head, nothing, nothing, and then—

 ** _“STILES!”_** Loud, unnatural, jarring, Derek slams his palms over his ears, shrinking into the wall as the banshee shrieks. Wolves howl in return, in the distance. His betas. They’re coming. He doesn’t howl back.

Lydia sucks in a breath choked with sobs, spine relaxing from where she had gone rigid with her scream. Breaths, breathe, breathing, she swipes at her face dazedly, smudging her make up thoroughly.

She turns to Derek.

He is stiff, frozen, hands still clamped tightly around his head. Wide eyes are trained on the body in the room.

“Wipe that look off your face,” Lydia hisses, eyes burning venomously. “You don’t get to _do this_ and then act torn up about it!”

Derek lowers his eyes, more because he can’t stand another second of Stiles’s stillness than because of Lydia’s words. They’re barely washing over him; her voice a distant stormy shore, words muffled thunder.

Lydia stands, a looming tower over him. She’s never seemed bigger or taller. She’s beautiful and fierce with flaming hair, burning eyes, red, blood, blood. A spark. The spark is dead. Long live the spark. She’s never been wilder, even among wolves, and Derek remembers his own words. Hell has no fury…

And she looks ready to give him hell.

She’s not a wolf, but her lips curl, teeth bared, fingers sharp, and Derek could have been fooled. She’s just as vicious as any of them if not more.

“Stand up,” she spits with the confidence to take down an alpha on her own. “Stand up, you monster.”

Wolf snaps its teeth and yowls. Beta must submit, it’s saying. Beta is out of line. Derek brushes it aside and stands. Despite everything, this is human.

He uses the wall to support himself, staring at Lydia’s eyebrows. There is no point in a direct challenge. That’s not what he wants out of this.

But Lydia insists, “Look at me. Damn you! Stop looking so pathetic.” A pause, then critically, “Why aren’t you healing? Why are you hurt at all?”

As if in reminder, his groin throbs. His tender nose aches. The slash on his forearm and the bite on his palm bleed sluggishly. He catalogues the pain distantly, doesn’t bother to reply. She knows.

“You let him,” Lydia says, stance loosening but holding. “Why? You let him fight you.”

“He was my mate,” is what comes out. “I loved him, too.”

A fresh tear plops down her cheek, but her voice is no less venomous. “I can’t imagine why I’d have a hard time believing that.”

Derek does growl then because no one is allowed to take that away from him, not even now. His love is true, despite this. Maybe including this.

“Then why? Why would you do this? What could possibly—“

“This was me investing in my pack’s safety over my…” he stutters. “Emotions”

“Stiles _is_ pack!”

Derek’s eyes drop to trace the stain of blood. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Outrage mars her features. “How dare you--”

“How dare I what, Martin?” Derek snaps, temper flaring. “How dare I watch out for my pack? Take out a threat?”

“A threat!? You’re telling me Stiles is your big threat? To _our pack_?! You really must not have loved him because you don’t know him at all!”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about, Martin.”

“I know that Stiles is the most loyal person on this planet, Hale. I know that he loves this pack fiercely, and that he’d never do anything to jeopardize us. And you seem to forget that I know everything.”

“Do you now?” Derek retorts sardonically. “Then did you know that Stiles was working with hunters? That he infiltrated our pack to gather information?”

“You and I both know that he would never do something idiotic like that.”

“Except he did. Peter showed me all the proof I needed tonight.”

Lydia frowns suddenly. “Peter?”

“But we were too late,” Derek says this quietly, his entire body drooping. “They got Isaac and Boyd before we could stop them. But, of course, you should know that.”

“What did Peter show you?” she asks instead, and the tone in her voice is different. Calculating, instead of hostile.

Derek studies her before answering. “Pictures. He had pictures of Argent with Stiles’s talisman.” It was unquestionably his talisman. It had pierced Derek’s heart, a betrayal, a hurt so grand he had only experienced it once before.

Judgment is blatant on Lydia’s expression. “You mean the talisman he only ever takes off for—Oh…” Her face slacks, horror dawning. “He only takes it off… for showers…”

“What?” Derek snaps because she’s trailed off, and the scent of horror and fury has flared in the room like Lydia is facing the devil himself.

Trembling hands go to cover her mouth. “Peter? Peter had these pictures?”

“Yes, woman, Peter! Have you met him?”

“You fool. You pitiful idiot. You-You…” Lydia shakes her head, trembling, her voice rising in volume, “You rash, traumatized dolt!”

In one swoop, Lydia swipes the knife from the ground and hurls it to her alpha. Blind and panicked, the blade only catches his shoulder, embedding into the wall. The line of the wound is already starting to stitch itself back together, slowly but surely. The other bleeds freely.

While Derek is distracted, Lydia’s fists shove and push at him. At a loss, Derek is directed away from the room, away from Stiles. He protests, but it’s fruitless to be heard over Lydia’s cries of, “You monster. You murdered him. You did this, you did this!”

“Enough!” he roars, because he is still the alpha, and he will not be spoken to this way, and he doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to hear it. “You will stop.”

“Or what? You’ll murder me, too?” And Derek hadn’t registered his claws digging into her neck. Fearlessly, recklessly, Lydia presses herself closer. A woman possessed, possessed by righteous fury and the deepest grief. “Do your worst. Prove your unworthiness. I’m not scared of you.”

In the hall, they stand. Derek’s breaths heaving. Lydia’s tight lips trembling.

The front door flies open for the second time that night, and they jump away from each other. His betas come pouring in. They’ve been through a battle themselves, evident from the tears on Erica’s and Cora’s clothing, the blood spatters on Peter. They smell the blood permeating the air, sense the alarm, sense that their pack has been thrown off-kilter, flipped up-side down. They look to their alpha for direction, all except the one frozen at the door.

Scott McCall who is standing wide-eyed and confused. Who is supposed to be dead.

Derek directs his glare from him to Peter who simply lifts a shoulder in response.

Cora goes to support Lydia’s unsteady legs, shooting her older brother a questioning look. Stepping away, he doesn’t catch it, too busy watching the shock bleed into Scott’s face.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Derek grits, fists tightening.

“Scott, don’t,” Lydia protests, but Scott shoves past them, bolting to the bedroom. Derek moves to stop him, but is intercepted by Lydia.

Instead, Derek turns to Peter and demands, “Explain yourself.”

Erica frowns between them, looking to where Scott disappeared. Then she takes a deep breath, holds it. “No way.”

A strangled noise down the hall. Distress rips through the air like lightning, sharper than Scott’s horrified cries. Erica whines and stalks after him.

“Explain yourself,” Lydia commands this time, glaring daggers into Peter’s head. “Fast, before you regret it.”

Much too calmly, Peter replies, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maybe the fact that everyone’s murder tonight is your fault.” All heads whip around to stare at her.

“How?” asks Cora.

“Tell them what you told Derek, Peter.”

“I told him what I thought, what made sense, given the evidence. You know me, doing my job as a loyal beta.”

“Protecting the pack—“

“Shut up, Derek,” Lydia cuts in, pushing away from Cora under Peter’s scrutiny. “And you cut the crap. Where did the evidence come from, Peter?”

Peter’s level stare holds painful promises. “If you’re as smart as you say you are, you’ll stop talking right now.”

After a visible swallow, Lydia turns to Cora. “You were there with me when Stiles complained about getting a new lock for the bathroom.”

“All million times, yeah,” Cora replies hesitantly. “He wanted to invest in a special mountain ash barrier or something ridiculous like that.”

“And why was that?”

“Because…” Cora furrows her eyebrows. “Peter kept barging in.”

“Stop it,” Peter hisses. “Shut up, children.”

Lydia ignores him, turning sharp eyes towards Derek. “Kept barging in during his showers. The only times Stiles took off his talisman, when it mysteriously went missing.”

“Lydia Martin,” Peter starts shouting, “You will not live long enough to regret those words!”

Lydia pushes on, louder, “And it just happens to turn up with Argents? Peter planted—“

A snarl erupts amidst the sudden chaos of the room. Cora and Lydia turn to Derek, expecting a violent outburst. What they see instead is Derek wrapping himself around Erica as she launches herself at Peter, jaw snapping with vicious teeth. The moment everyone turns, Peter yanks Lydia’s arm with a roar of his own. Claws raised, he swings for Lydia’s neck. Fangs rip free as Cora throws herself at him. Lydia screams. Peter and Cora go down in a tangle of sharp, struggling limbs. Erica writhes her way out of Derek’s hold, lunging towards Peter who rolls to his feet and books it to the front door.

“Cora, with me!” Erica shouts, right on Peter’s heels.

“Wait!” Scott bursts into the room, face red and wet and haunted, but with a determination that could rival a warrior’s. He throws a vial at Cora, one of the ones that spilled from the backpack earlier. “Kanima—“

“Got it.” She catches it and runs after Erica.

Immediately after, Scott drops to where Lydia lies on the floor. Getting shoved by Cora had saved her throat, but the result still looked gruesome. From right shoulder, across the clavicle, and towards the curve of her breast, skin was torn open, and bruises already bloomed on her skin from how hard Peter grabbed her. Her teeth are clenched against the pain, eyes blown wide.

“Okay.” Scott strips off his shirt with barely a warning of, “Sorry, this is gonna hurt,” before he’s pressing it against the flow of blood. Lydia’s eyes roll back with a high-pitched whine, but then she’s gulping breaths, muttering nonsensically, shaking her head over and over.

“It looks bad, and they’ll scar, but they’re long, not deep. You can thank Cora for that. We need to stop the bleeding, and… we need my mom.”  He takes a steadying breath.  “Derek, you need to—Derek?”

Derek remains on the floor from his struggle with Erica. He is so still, so pale that for a moment Scott thinks Erica actually killed him in her manic struggle, that she was the new alpha of their pack—

Then Derek mumbles, “You two weren’t working with the Argents?”

The misery in the air flares into his consciousness, but Scott only feels rage, pure and cold, slithering through his veins. “Derek, I do not have time for your bullshit, not now, not _ever_. You can’t even begin to imagine how done I am with your shit right now, but I can’t worry about that right this instant. Now get your sorry ass over here and, for once in your life help me save someone else!”

Derek doesn’t move for several infuriating moments until Scott barks, “Derek!” fangs elongating, and the alpha finally shuffles nearer.

Derek’s hands secured over Lydia’s wound, Scott trusts pure pack dynamics to take care of some of Lydia’s pain, soothed by the alpha’s presence, present circumstances notwithstanding. Staunching the bleeding will hold her over until help comes. Now his mind races with what the hell he’s going to tell his mother over the phone, the entirety of the situation still overwhelming and distressing to him. He opens with, “Mom, we need your help.”

Just as he finishes packing Lydia’s situation in a nutshell, the front door swings open. Cora and Erica drag a twitching Peter in, faces stormy. They dump him on the floor by his feet, presenting him to Scott. He hangs up on his mom, trusting her to get there with what they need.

Stone-faced, Cora takes over for Derek, hovering over Lydia. Black, inky lines of pain course up her hands as soon as she touches Lydia, and the redhead relaxes into her touch.

Peter snorts at the sight, rolling his head to look at Scott and twitch his fingers in a mock-wave.

Scott frowns. “He’s not paralyzed.”

Fidgeting, Erica says, “We didn’t use the poison.”

“Then how…”

Eyes darting to Derek, Erica shakes her head minutely. The way Peter continues twitching says electricity, and Scott’s mouth clicks shut, mind flashing with soft hair, sharp features, and beautiful eyes. He hopes Derek is too out of his mind to smell Allison on his betas.

“Obviously the werewolf and hunter collaboration is not much of a lie anymore,” Peter says, and Erica kicks him straight in the teeth.

“You tricked me.” Derek, looking dazed, stands over Peter, watches him spit out blood. “It was all a lie.”

“No,” Peter sneers. “I call it- a manipulation of information.”

“Why?!” Scott cries, ready to fly off the handle, pushing Derek out of the way. Derek slinks into the background, blinking repeatedly and visibly turning information in his head over and over. He doesn’t even protest to the rough handling, lost in his own head.

Peter growls nastily. “As if I’d tell you, little boy. You don’t deserve to know. You don’t deserve _anything_.”

A short, hysterical laugh bubbles out of Lydia like a hiccup, and she breathes out, “ _Oh_.”

Icy fire burns in the glare Peter sends her way, but his words are for Scott. “You already know all that I’ll say. Don’t ask me anything more.”

Erica kicks him again. “Don’t think we won’t beat it out of you.”

“I’m taking what I know to my grave.”

“I hope you’re ready to follow through with that--”

“Enough!” Cora snaps and grabs Scott’s attention. “What do you want to do with him?”

Scott rubs a stressed hand over his eyes. “Lydia is our priority right now, but we can’t let him get away. Get some kanima poison on him, tie him up. Then we’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Erica pipes up, “Where’d Derek go?”

Cora curses. Scott snaps around.

“Cora, stay with Lydia. Medic’s on the way. Erica, take care of Peter.” Scott squares his shoulders. “I’ll find Derek.”

He doesn’t need to go far at all to find him. Just down the hall. Back to the bedroom.

It feels like every surface is slathered in his best friend’s blood, the stench of iron overwhelming, the sight jarring and terrifying. He tries to avoid the puddle of it, despite having dropped right into it in his despair earlier. It just seems disrespectful and twisted now. Derek seems to pay it little mind, soaked in it, covered in it.

Derek is cradling Stiles when Scott walks in. One arm is curled gingerly around Stiles’s frame, propping him against Derek’s chest. The other hand is limp on the floor, fingers curved around one of their enchanted knives, gleaming with blood and something else, something sharper that sets alarms off in Scott’s head, makes him tense and spring out his claws.

Quietly, carefully, Scott says, “Derek…”

Derek doesn’t look up from where he’s studying Stiles’s pale face, eyes roving and desperate. Scott’s heart flares with agony and fury, but he forces himself to hold his ground, reign in the wildly lashing emotions the way Derek had taught him long, long before this mess.

“You’ve come so far,” is what Derek says, voice flat, but somehow still getting the sincerity across. “You’ll be good.”

Scott swallows thickly, stomach dropping with nerves. “Stiles would have been better.”

“Yeah.” Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’s. He takes a moment to collect himself, thinking hard about the next few moments because he’s never been one to be wasteful of words. Stiles was the speaker. But this will be crucial for the future of the pack. His concern for their safety is what got them all into this mess; now he has to see it to the end.

Scott speaks before he can gather his thoughts. “Derek, I need you to come with me.”

Derek just shakes his head because they both know that’s not happening. Instead, he replies, “Nothing I say will fix anything, so I won’t say it. I trust that you and the pack will understand – eventually – even if you never forgive me. I don’t expect you to. I… wouldn’t forgive myself either.”

Scott confirms with his silence, doesn’t move to force Derek away or comfort him or kill him.

He continues, “I’ve been training you long enough, and now it’s time. I don’t know why… I don’t know why Peter did this but…” Derek’s head lowers jerkily, face hiding in the crook of Stiles’s neck. Little wolf whines escape his throat at the silence that meets him there. Scott’s eyes sting, and Derek forces himself up again with a giant breath. “But he did, and now this happened, and he won’t say why, and I don’t know why.”

“No, but I do,” a slightly winded voice says. Lydia stands at the door behind Scott, his shirt pressed against her wound, face pinched, eyes sharp. Her eyes flicker first toward the knife then to the empty vial next to Derek’s legs. Cora’s arms, still lined with black, are looped around her waist for support.

Scott turns sharply towards her, but Cora – visibly trying to keep her eyes away from the gore, breathing shallowly - only shrugs weakly. Lydia is a force to be reckoned with on good days, and Cora had developed a soft spot for her. Scott was stupid to think they’d stay put. If Lydia wanted to get her bloody, injured self somewhere, she’d drag herself to do it. Cora wouldn’t leave her.

Lydia only has eyes for Derek. She can only handle so much grief, and Derek has enough to fuel the world four times just from tonight.

He stares at her brokenly, and Lydia can’t fathom how much she loves and loathes her alpha right now.

“It’s simple, really,” Lydia says as an echo of her normally prim and condescending self. Wet lashes might betray her. “You chose Scott to be your successor, and Peter didn’t like that for two reasons. One, he’s not a Hale. Two, he’s not Peter Hale. And he had to do something about it.

“But obviously we’d never accept him as alpha if he killed Scott, and just getting rid of him some other way wouldn’t be enough. You’d pick someone else. He needed the alpha status. So he framed them.”

Derek flinches, a distressed whine escaping him, and mutters things that sound like “he knew,” and “he tried to tell me.”

Lydia is shakier when she picks up her conclusion again. “Framing both of them would get you to lose trust in Scott, leaving the spot open, and it also took down the one most likely to protest on behalf of Scott: Stiles. By having you- Stiles-“ She shakes her head. “Peter could kill you, claim it was on Stiles’s behalf and for the good of the pack, and he’d take your power. We’d all be off-kilter, but technically still together.” She purses her lips. “With Peter as the alpha.”

From down the hall, Peter’s derisive chuckles are heard. Then the satisfying crunch of Erica’s foot connecting with his ribs.

Derek’s gaze is fixed on Cora who is looking paler and paler. When her eyes flicker back to him, he says firmly, “Peter can never be alpha.” Eyes fixing on Lydia, Derek insists, “No matter what it takes.”

A stiff nod from the two of them has Derek relaxing slightly, even as he growls at the snort from Peter down the hall.

“Scott,” he says, voice going soft. Cora straightens instead, leaving the other two frowning in confusion until Derek continues, “Scott McCall, with the Moon and our betas as witness--“

“Derek, wait--“ Cora protests. Scott stands rigidly, torn.

Derek pushes on, voice rising over hers. “As loyal leader and followers, I – alpha Hale of the pack in Beacon Hills –“ Derek brandishes the knife in warning when she tries to get closer even though they all know, they all thought he’d never use it on them.

Stiles says differently.

And Scott can smell it now, the wolfsbane mingling with Stiles’s blood on the blade.

When they all take an involuntary step backward, Derek’s voice booms deeply with a different kind of power. “I hereby elect you as the next alpha of the Beacon Hills pack, effective immediately—“

Scott’s shift sprouts effortlessly, forced almost without him noticing. New energy flows into him, bubbly and electrified in his veins. A howl breaks from his throat, instinctive and strong, pitched low and long into the night, his call to his pack.

Cora and Lydia beside him, Erica down the hall, his betas tilt their heads back and emit howls of their own, responding, accepting. Scott feels a new entity in his chest, his veins, parallel but connected to his consciousness, the presence of a wolf inside him. It stands proud and strong, thriving amidst its pack.

They drop, drop, gradually until the howls die down. Elation settles along his limbs, making him feel like floating.

Then Lydia chokes, jerks, and **shrieks**.

Cora screams, “ _Derek!”_

Derek pulls away from Stiles’s neck, grabs a second vial of wolfsbane and throws it back like a shot, choking violently as he swallows. Blue wolf eyes flash and flicker, breaths rasping through his throat. He mouths ‘I’m sorry, I love—‘ and Cora turns away fast, hiding her face against Lydia.

Before he loses more strength, Derek drags the knife against his throat. Chokes. Stiffens. Collapses against Stiles.

Sobs fill the room, Cora’s shoulders quaking, now being supported by Lydia who is putting every ounce of her focus on the grieving girl.

Shock and tremors run up and down Scott’s body. He’s frozen against the wall, eyes squeezed tightly, holding his breath. His mind is buzzing, wolf confused, heart hurting, aching, agony choking the life out of him. Until he hears a whine outside the door.

Erica stands in the hall, stricken, tears running in rivulets, drip drip dripping. She refuses to step any closer, staunchly keeping her eyes away from the entrance. Just waits for her to pack to come to her.

Scott goes breathless for a moment. He’d been preparing to be alpha, someday, but not like this, _not like this_ —

Turning his back on the gruesome scene, Scott gently tugs Cora and Lydia into the hall. Softly closes the door. Gathers his betas – _his betas_ – together in his arms so they’re all touching, crowding crying Cora into a close circle, comforting.

Making sure to keep a hand on Lydia especially, Scott holds them together, doesn’t bother to hush their cries.

The front door opens hesitantly before they’ve moved, and Scott detects two heartbeats crossing the threshold. They pound in his ears louder than his own, alpha senses leaking in steadily. A deep breath has him inhaling the scents of the two most important people in the world.

(The ones left alive--)

Stiffly detracting himself from his betas, he makes sure to keep them behind him as he leads them out the hall.

“Don’t shoot,” he says as he slides into the room.

Allison’s crossbow is trained on Peter who is bound with what looks like shredded curtains on the sofa, a maddening smirk on his lips. Allison’s face says business, cold and calculating. Brown eyes flicker to Scott briefly, assessing, before returning to the real danger of the room.

Melissa lowers her gun with a relieved sigh, taking long strides towards them and wrapping her son in an embrace. Scott takes just a short moment to breathe softly into her shoulder before she is clearing her throat and retrieving her medical kit. “Where’s my patient?”

Woozy Lydia tries to take a step forward, but Cora, numbly, has to catch her as her legs buckle, having pushed way beyond her limit. The three head into the kitchen without another word.

Scott is left in the room with Peter, Allison, and Erica, and a heavy realization dawning on him like a tidal wave. He watches his mother’s retreating back until the edges start to blur and twitch. She’s a horrifying reminder, the link that leads Scott’s train of concerns out of their little bubble. Words come from Erica, but Scott can only hear his own breaths rasping and dragging in his ears, in, out, in, in, _in_ —until they’re interrupted with a _thwick_ and an angry shout of pain that is abruptly cut off with a heavy _thuck_.

Allison’s hand in his is like being ripped away from a hallucination. What funnels back to him registers with such a sharp clarity that it makes him wonder about his previous state of mind. Where before it felt like he was trapped in layers of haze and fog, now it felt like being shot straight up with adrenaline. The discordance is more than disturbing, especially since Scott had not even noticed what kind of headspace he had fallen into.

He blinks hard, trying to focus on Allison’s steady eyes.  She holds his hands firmly, anchoring, while Erica - sniffling stifled - hovers, a soothing beta presence. Everything is still and silent until he can reign in his senses again.

Once his fluttering heartbeat is the only indication that anything was wrong to begin with, Allison gently prods, “Okay?”

Scott nods distractedly, frowning at the arrow sticking out of an unconscious Peter’s thigh and the new injury on his head, healing sluggishly.

“He was getting annoying,” explains Erica, earning another nod.

Allison rubs her thumb across Scott’s cheek while he draws all his strength. “I need to—“

“Shower and rest,” interrupts Melissa as she comes out of the kitchen, looking weary beyond her years. “None of you are fit to be doing, well, much of anything right now. Sleep is what you need, all of you.”

As appealing as it sounded to scrub himself down four times over and collapse right into his bed, Scott feels the burden of responsibility pulling at him from all sides. Too many things to take care of, not enough energy. But, dammit, Scott pulls himself together, little by little, for the sake of his pack.

“You finished with Lydia?” At Melissa’s nod, he frowns. “Already?”

“You were out of it a while,” Allison supplies. Scott waves away his mother’s concerned look.

“Is she okay?”

“Dandy.” Lydia’s sharp voice comes out of the kitchen before Melissa can reply. Scott is reminded of a seething dragon, breathing out its rage. “Ready to raise some hell.”

Melissa rubs her temples. “Oh, you lot will be raising some eyebrows.”

Directing a venomous glare at the still knocked out Peter, Allison mutters, “Oh, we’ll raise something alright.”

Vibrating with tension, Erica scrubs away her tears, careful of her claws. “Is it time to kill him yet?”

Scott fidgets, but Allison surprises him with an answer. “My dad and his people are on their way. They’ll take that problem out of our hands.”

“Your family and your goons are the reasons we are in this mess to begin with.” Appearing suddenly, Cora leans against the doorframe, arms wrapped around her waist, face hard, eyes eerily blank.

Allison’s expression flickers, but she holds eye contact. “There’s some… things you guys might not know about the hunters right now.”

Cora unforgivingly rolls her eyes. “I could not care less about your family and its excuses right now.”

Scott senses the rush of anger that seethes beneath Allison’s skin as she visibly bites back her words. But she must realize it’s not the time or place because she lets that specific argument go without another word, but Scott knows. He’s been by Allison’s side, supporting her as best as he can.

Power struggles are breaking out among hunters. What happened tonight specifically, he can now deduce, was thanks to Kate Argent. Allison and her father, their people, are trying to push her and hers down, trying to clear the bloodlust from the Argent name.

They want to change the code to hunt only the true monsters. Peter. Kate. The ones who can’t be detained by human laws thanks to all of their supernatural circumstances.

Regardless of the added tension, Allison straightens her spine and clears her throat. “They’re still coming to take Peter off our hands. What the other hunters did to Boyd and Isaac is unacceptable.”

Melissa inhales sharply. “What happened to Boyd and Isaac?”

Too many pairs of eyes land on him suddenly. Scott thinks his legs might give out from the weight of their stares when he realizes that _they don’t know_. Both Allison and his mother were missing crucial pieces of information. Too short phone calls, unexplained panic, and interrupted thoughts hadn’t allowed him to get everyone on the same page.

They weren’t aware of the carnage just down the hall.

Too much almost overwhelms him again. It’s only sheer force of will that keeps him from falling into another panic attack.

With rising urgency, Melissa asks, “Where is Stiles? And Derek?”

Scott chokes on his words, stricken with the emptiness that fills him to the point of bursting, unmanageable even with Allison stepping into his space.

“I-I thought they’d gone back to the den,” she stammers, “to take care of- them?”

Cora shuts down even worse, staring blankly at the floor before wordlessly retreating to her spot beside Lydia. Erica edges closer to him, gnawing her lip to the point of bleeding.

“Scott?” His mother calls.

Words don’t come to him, unable to wrap his mind around the enormity of the situation himself, so he does the only other thing he can think to do.

His Alpha red eyes make Melissa’s hands fly towards her mouth, make Allison gape.

“Oh, God,” Melissa cries, tears quickly welling and falling. Allison stumbles away from them, rounding on Peter.

Scott allows himself to be tangled in his mother’s arms.

Punches rain upon Peter Hale. Fury lines every sound out of Allison’s mouth, and he numbly worries over the state of her knuckles, especially when he realizes the blows brought Peter back to consciousness.

Scott closes his eyes.


	2. Memento Vivere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had kind of a cruddy day, but I'm here to finally post this little epilogue. This is probably the longest, completed thing I've ever written, so I'm glad to finally have it out!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Things are different when he opens them.

Four funerals that he numbly sits through. Four eulogies that he doesn’t remember delivering. Four pack members with their own methods of mourning.

Four weeks before it finally feels like some of the gauze that had been wrapped around his mind is unraveling. 

It’s not a breath of fresh air. The grief around his heart is still as potent as the night four weeks ago, like a physical weight in his chest that tugs and pulls and weighs him down. Makes him want to give in. Roll over. Sleep more.  Lights off and curtains closed, the darkness tempts him, shrouding him with its addictive anesthesia.  

But something is different today.

Gripping the edge of the bed, Scott hesitantly pushes himself off, encouraged by multiple heartbeats in his house.

It’s bright enough to be some time in the afternoon outside of his room. Warm sunlight filters into the hallway and down the stairs, assaulting Scott and his extra sensitive, heightened vision. He has to squint against it, especially after spending so long in the dark.

He forgets all about it when he enters the kitchen, facing what felt so different about today.

Sheriff Stilinski sits on the table with his hands loosely wrapped around a mug. The tea inside hasn’t been sipped even once, but still he keeps it close to him. Every line on his face screams tired, eyes mostly bloodshot, having aged years and years since the last time Scott could remember seeing him. Scott imagines he doesn’t look much better himself, but it still makes something in him ache to see the Sheriff this way. He’s smaller and drawn and beyond sadness, but he sits there and he stares at the table and he nods like clockwork at whatever story Melissa is sharing with her gentle, light voice. Every action is a singular step, but it means the Sheriff is still walking.

Scott brims with emotion; despair that he has to face what he had been dreading, anger that this has to happen at all, fondness that stubbornness runs in the Stilinski family. More grief.

Before he can figure out what he wants to do, Melissa finally notices him with a surprised, “Scott…”

The change in him must be visible because she stands from her spot beside the Sheriff to take Scott in her arms with a delicacy that only a parent could pull off. He squeezes her tightly, trying to muster up some courage from her gentle strength.

When she finally lets go, she brushes at her eyes, but her smile is completely genuine.

“Mister Stilinski,” Scott croaks before clearing his throat.

The Sheriff gives another nod, eyes flittering but refusing to really come off the table. His voice is just as gruff but no less familiar when he replies, “Scott.”

Already it’s more than he can handle, but at least it seems like the Sheriff is on the same boat. It might be the first time he comes around their house since, but it definitely won’t be the last. There will be many steps that Scott and the Sheriff have to take together.

Into the following silence, Melissa hazards, “Do you want something to eat, Scott?”

Guilt eats away at him instead when he shakes his head no, but thankfully Melissa leaves it at that for the moment. Instead she says, “Your, uh, everyone is outside, if you’re up to seeing them.”

The other heartbeats are brought to the forefront of his mind. Something in him settles at their presence, a rumbling little entity that he hadn’t paid any mind until now. Curiously poking at it, he decides to leave it until he has more emotional energy to examine it.

A glance at the window makes him rummage around for sunglasses before gingerly stepping into the backyard.

His attention is immediately attracted to Allison. Looking at her makes him feel sort of like she went and grew up without him. There are differences in her, like there will be in everyone, but hers are subtle, and Scott can’t bring himself to pick them out quite yet, content to let his eyes rake over her and her presence wash over him. This was his breath of fresh air, his mate, his love. Cloud 9 seems like an actual destination were it not for the mourning still latched to his ankles.

Allison doesn’t notice him immediately, focused on teaching Erica how to shoot a crossbow, by the looks of it. Erica’s very image is bold, everything about her amped to its highest degree. She’s not focused, she’s determined. It’s not anger that makes her pull the trigger, but fury. And it’s not satisfaction she feels when she hits her mark. She rolls her shoulders with pride. Her volume is set to max, but it’s a surprise to realize that it’s not grating. She packs it all into her veins so that her very being is the strength that keeps her going. Scott feels paper thin and frail in comparison to her, but he’s glad that she’s found a way to cope.

The quieter duo sitting beneath a tree finally pulls his attention. Cora looks very much the way that Scott feels. Tired, pale, small, Cora is laying with her head pillowed on Lydia’s thighs, eyes closed, breaths measured. His heart instantly aches for her, truly the last Hale, but never alone. He vows then and there to remind her that they’re all there for her. As many times as it will take for her to find peace again.

Scott startles slightly when he meets Lydia’s eyes. He hadn’t realized that she had been watching him the whole time. Nerves filling him inexplicably, he pushes up his sunglasses and scratches his nose, but Lydia only smiles softly and goes back to reading her book about the universe, her fingers softly running through Cora’s hair. Out of all of them, Lydia seems the most unchanged, but Scott doesn’t let it deceive him. There are scars inside and out, both of which she staunchly refuses to acknowledge. He only worries about the moment it’ll all catch up to her as it tends to do one way or another.

“Let’s take a break,” Allison says suddenly. Erica accepts without comment, only stopping to shoot Scott a grin before flouncing off to sit beside Lydia, leaning her head on her shoulder. Undisturbed, Lydia starts reading out loud, the image managing to soothe some of the tension that had crept into Scott’s posture.

The rest of it melts away as Allison approaches. Neither of them says a word, but when she presses her forehead against his, Scott could almost cry from relief. One of the many knots in his head releases, and just for now, that is okay, _it is enough_ , just this tiny little moment where Scott can breathe.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Allison murmurs, and Scott nods mutely. Honestly, he’s already drained and ready for another long nap, but it’s different. Different from the long, long haze of apathy that he’d been stuck in.  Not quite back on his feet yet, not for the long run, but marginally better than just a few hours earlier.

Steps. Scott is still walking.

After a long moment of consideration, Allison draws back enough to pull something from her pocket. She clenches it in her fist almost painfully, her knuckles still slightly battered, but when Scott goes to tug her fingers, she moves away from him. When he frowns at her, she sighs softly.

“I do have something to show you, but I want you to brace yourself for it. Are you okay with that?” Nerves swoop into his stomach, but the look on his mate’s face is so hopeful and hesitant that he can’t bring himself to say no. After his slow nod, Allison opens her fist.

Everything inside him turns to ice. For a second, he fears the rush of dizziness will win the battle against his consciousness, but then Allison’s hand finds his, and he sucks in breath after breath, slowly coming back to himself.

Cradled in her hand is the talisman. The leather strap is slightly weathered from use, but the round pendant has not a mark on it. Packed into it is the hum of magic and the undeniable sense of _pack_ and _comfort_ and _human_. His eyes trace the Triskele, but Scott can’t bring himself to reach for it.

Before he can force himself, Allison gently folds her fingers over it again. “I don’t want you to take it,” she says. “But I thought you should know that it was back where it belonged. With us. Home. I’ll keep it until you’re ready or for however long you need me to.”

Overwhelmed with emotions, all Scott can do is surge forward to plant a kiss onto her mouth. It’s short and sweet and dizzying to all of his senses.

“Thank you,” he says with every ounce of earnestness in his being. Gesturing to everyone under the tree and in the kitchen, he adds, “For everything.” She smiles demurely, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Feeling weariness tug at him again, he tugs Allison towards the tree. Lydia only briefly pauses her reading to make herself more comfortable as everyone accommodates to make room for the two. With Allison pressed against Erica’s front, Scott opts for curling up next to Cora who only blinks at him owlishly before closing her eyes again, this time looking slightly more relaxed than before. As Lydia’s voice picks up again, Scott lets himself be soothed by the fingers in his hair.

Six hearts beat around him, resonating with his seventh. It sends painful pangs through him to think about how small the number seems now. But as much as it hurts, as miserable as he is, he doesn’t want to think about a time in the future where the pain won’t be there, where six will be normal.

So for now, he just lets six be enough. It’s enough for his pack. It’s enough to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr at theknightfromcydonia or littleyounggun if you ever want to drop a prompt or say hello!

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS for the completed work (contains spoilers):  
> Violence, murder of major character, manipulation, suicide by major character, depression, altered state of mind, blood imagery, minor panic attack description.
> 
> The second chapter is just a short, little epilogue. Not exactly happy, but lighter than this. It'll be up soon!


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